


London's Finest

by Gothams_Only_Wolf



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magical Realism, Crossdressing, Gen, Harry Potter characters don't show up until later, Hedge-Witchery, I Can't Believe I Wrote This, M/M, Multi, Protective Greg, Tinctures & Potions, Why Did I Write This?, Wiccan - Freeform, Wiccan Holidays
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-21
Updated: 2015-11-24
Packaged: 2018-05-02 17:58:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5258222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gothams_Only_Wolf/pseuds/Gothams_Only_Wolf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gregory Lestrade is more than he seems; more than detective inspector, more than just New Scotland Yard's top crime-solver and more than he could ever want to be while chasing a certain Holmes through the streets. But Greg's about to get the shock of a lifetime; one does not keep a secret within the sight of a Holmes without it getting discovered.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Moon River

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was inspired by a lovely Supernatural fic here on AO3 called Box Turtle Lane. (The fic isn't finished but I adore it so very much.) It kind of staggered for a bit before I charged on ahead despite my reservations. I can't seem to find anything like it. Oh well. 
> 
> This a bit older than some of my other pieces so please feel free to point out errors. Also, Greg has a bit of a temper at being invaded on his day off. Can't always be level-headed. 
> 
> Enjoy?

* * *

Greg hums along with the soft songs from his playlist as he waters his window herb garden. Plants sway in the warm breeze that passes through London in early fall, green tendrils following Greg's swaying dance as he closes his eyes to get swept up into the music. When he opens them again, it's to an impatient rapping he knows far too well. It's his day off and Sherlock's pounding at his door as though he should be on duty all the time. 

A tiny part of him resents that Sherlock expects him to always be available. 

"What, Sherlock?" He huffs as he watches the consulting detective's eyes take in his warm flat. Greg's plants are everywhere and they're in full bloom even if they're out of season. Glasz eyes take in the blooming belladonna and various poisonous plants; Greg knows each and every one. "Don't you even think about taking from my plants. D'you have any idea how hard it is to grow them in the first place?" he crosses his arms in a defensive stance as Sherlock's gaze lights up on his wormwood and aconite. 

"In the city? No." 

"It's bloody miserable if you don't do it right. What did you want?" Greg asks as he feels the lilting tune of his inate magics skirting around the consulting detective. 

"I'm bored." 

"Go bother John." he quips as he sets his kettle onto the stove to boil. Dried plants for his tinictures, lotions and pastes hang in large bunches above his island and Sherlock's still-gloved hands reached up to steady the rosemary after the taller idiot had shifted them to the side.

"John is at Tesco."

"Mrs. Hudson?" he sighs, muttering protection spells under his breath as he takes down the sugar and cream. If anyone needed them, it was Sherlock. 

"Visiting with Mrs. Turner's married ones."

"Case?" Greg is starting to get irked that everyone whom Sherlock involves himself with has decided to ruin Greg's routine. 

"Solved it in two hours. Boring. Dimmock's an idiot." comes the vitriolic supply. "You are un-occupied-"

"No. I'm off, dammit Sherlock, and I will not gallumph around London with you." Greg grumbles as he pours out the hot water from the kettle, steeping the two tea-bags with the ease of long practice, setting down his sugar cubes and creamer. He pours a dollop of Irish whiskey into his tea, offering the bottle to Sherlock. The genius shakes his head to the negative. Greg shrugs and puts the alcohol back up. 

"What is it you do?"

"Relax from chasing you around my city. I read a good book, essentially become a couch-potato. Very boring." he snarks as he squeezes his tea-bag (setting in down onto the tea-platter) before taking a large mouthful of his beverage. To prove his point, he tugged over his spell-book in Gaelic and flicked it open to his spot. 

Greg feels the intense gaze before he bristles at the annoying way Sherlock leans over his shoulder. "Sherlock, go bother someone else before I bury you six meters beneath your beloved city and even Mycroft will not be able to find you." he hisses, the plant vines curling and snapping in his agitation. Greg soothes his temper near instantly, sighing as he sees the miniscule slip in Sherlock's mask. "You can stay. Just don't touch my music or my plants. I know each and every one of them, so I'll know if you nicked any." 

The astonishment registered before the normally prickly detective seemed to wilt in the guest chair. 

"May I read a book?" comes the quiet response. 

"Go for it." he shrugs as he delves back into his book and music the happy humming not disturbed in the least by his new arrival. 

Greg drinks his tea whilst being aware of how curious his magic is towards Sherlock. It tugs on the broad coat, skitters across the slim shoulders and skates down the slope of Sherlock's fairly long legs. He mentally admonishes it but it does not bother to listen. It pushes at Sherlock's curls and then seeks to explore past the barriers Greg had placed there from manipulation of mind magics. He tugs on the offending bit, offering to shove it in the same place he'd told Sherlock of not five minutes ago. It quieted with an internal grumble, sweeping like a cat around Greg's feet in apology. 

Sherlock looks up and sees Greg's mulish expression before returning to his book. As his playlist rolls into Celtic Woman, his stomach reminded he hadn't eaten anything but the kippers in his fridge on bread this morning. As his fridge was stocked a great deal better than Sherlock's he decided to invite the consulting detective to a nice tea break. Gently placing his carved bookmark into a page of house-hold cleaning spells, he discarded the old water and set about boiling it fresh. 

"Is that not wasteful?" the odd question made him shake his head. 

"I use it to water my plants. Under the sink there's a watering can." Greg replies as he dug out his chocolate digestives and arranged them into the shape of a flower, eating one or two to calm his growling stomach. Sherlock's waif-thin form made the most horrid noise Greg had heard all week. "Alright. Where is John really?" 

"Out. On a date tonight." the reluctant admission makes Greg smile fondly. 

"Stay for dinner. It's nice to have company." he relents to his magic's will as it wants to examine Sherlock all the way and that _is_ unusual. Most of the time it shies away from people. 

"Is this a social convention?" The unsure look is one that doesn't suit the consulting detective. 

"No. It's called being nice, Sherlock. Text John that you're not going to he home when he is." he chuckles as he sets the first plate of digestives down along with more tea. Sherlock hesitates to eat and Greg rolls his eyes, pushing the plate in the genius's direction. "Go on. No judging here." 

He grabbed a handful before returning to his book, grinning as he hears chewing noises. Before long the plate is empty and Greg just pours the remainder of the box onto the plate. Sherlock looks like a kid with bits of chocolate smearing the edge of his lips but Greg is more amused than upset. 

"I'll replace them."

"Can't. I special-order those from a lovely girl in Frankfurt." he returns evenly. "She'll expect an order any day because she knows they're just that good." 

He didn't feel like explaining that she just happened to be a Premier Witch for her Coven. Greg's own Coven had booted him when they realized that his magic was semi-sentient. Greg had joined the Frankfurt one online and they met up at the major hedge-witch days to celebrate (namely Samhain, Beltane, Imbolc). 

Speaking of witchy things, his Familiar hadn't been back in a few days. He heard a yap from his fox, Refr, as though the beautiful beast had been summoned by his thoughts. Sleek grey fur with a touch of deeper crimson marks Refr as different from the usual fox pests; not to mention the deep blue collar with tags stating that he belongs to Greg. The doggie door is always open to his beloved baby. 

"Is that a fox?" Sherlock's head popped up from the leather guest chair with a intrigued expression. 

"Sherlock, meet my fox Refr. Refr, Sherlock is a guest. Play nice." Refr wags his beautifully full tail in a pleased manner. 

"It is illegal to own a wild animal." the interest his Familiar and his guest had in each other caused his magic to topple his heather, hand-made broom. Silently scolding it so that it fixes things before Sherlock sees is a miracle in and of itself; his magic isn't usually this fractious. 

"Refr poses no danger and most of the time, he's mistaken for a munchkin breed of dog." he scoffs at the possibility of his sweet fox hurting anyone who didn't mean Greg any harm. "Everyone who's actually met him likes him." He picked up the musky fox and draped Refr over his shoulders like a stole. 

"Are you aware that he could have rabies?" Sherlock's remark earns him a displeased growl from Refr. 

"Vaccinated and he has a flea-and-tick collar. I know what I'm doing." he counters as he takes in what he has in the fridge for dinner. Fish, fish and beef? Hmm. "Refr, what do you want?" The fox pokes his liver-colored nose against the beef. "Beef it is." 

"The fox cannot answer you back-" 

"Refr is perfectly capable of intelligent conversations." Greg snarks as he leaves his Familiar wrapped around his shoulders while preparing dinner with ease. 

After dinner, Sherlock gets a text from Mycroft, which immediately makes the genius run off. 

A knock on the door reveals Mycroft is sending his brother on a wild-goose chase. Greg doesn't open the door or even budge from his armchair as Mycroft's sharp, precise raps turn into a full pounding. 

Refr heaves a sigh at his side, looking up with warm golden eyes that show an immense amount of patience. 

"I know Refr." The knocking ceases before his doorbell is being rung instead. "The answer remains the same, Mycroft Holmes, and you know it quite well! No!" he snaps as the noise drives him up the wall. All attempts to gain his attention cease as Greg snarls his answer as he does each week. 

Mycroft Holmes refuses to take no for an answer from the only non-British Coven associated witch in a decade. (Not that the man knows that particular fact.) He doesn't want to leave his job nor his Familiar nor his friends (John and Sherlock) for anything Mycroft will offer him. He sighs, wipes a tired hand over his face and opens the door to see a frustrated elder Holmes. 

"Why do you keep saying no? You do not even know what it is I am offering." comes the displeased tone of a man who is used to getting his way. 

"Mostly on the principle that you don't get said no to a lot in your line of work. The other is that I like my place." Greg lets the man into his flat with a rueful grin as he offers Mycroft a cuppa. When essentially the British Government loosens his tie and slumps in the chair Sherlock vacated not moments ago, Greg is caught between comforting him or asking what motive he has. 

"May I relax here with you?" the tired expression mixed with the complete loss of tension in the man's frame convinces Greg he needs to seriously work on a tincture for the mind. He makes a different drink this time, one to soothe the obviously over-worked mind and body. Carrying it over to the elder Holmes, Sherlock's impatient rapping makes him shake his head. Both Holmes's could use a little magic to calm down the frantic pace of their minds to be frank. 

He lets in Holmes the younger before shoving some of the same tinicture into Sherlock's hands. 

"Drink, sit and shut up for more than five seconds." he states as he goes back to petting Refr in peace. So much for his day off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comment, complain, ect.


	2. Tinctures and Plants

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Felt like piling on fic today so I'm updating a lot of things~ 
> 
> Enjoy!

* * *

A shift in his routine is not what Greg expected when he met the Holmes brothers. He's a little surprised, therefore, when John shows up at his door carrying groceries that are clearly labeled with Mycroft's hand-writing. 

"I've been named delivery boy since neither of them have the guts to approach you about the fact that they've had fewer headaches in years thanks to you." John's disarming smile earns him one from Greg as they enter his flat. They find both Holmes brothers having an awful face-off that is mitigated only by the fact that Refr is in-between them getting petted. 

"Refr, have you gotten them to play nice? Good boy." The dark grey ears prick up at his voice and it earns him a happy yap. "That's my baby." Greg croons at his Familiar while feeding him a rare piece of meat. He gets strange looks from all three men as he tugs down various bottles for remedies that usually don't leave his shelves. 

Murmuring spells over them so that the brothers cannot switch their doses or experiment, he also starts a kettle. Home is a relaxing place; Greg also goes through more tea than anyone he knows. More spells and arrays are drawn into the wax he uses to seal the bottles. He whispers a final blessing from Circe before he looks up to see three sets of eyes completely confused. 

The sight alone makes him laugh brightly as he doesn't do on his job. The glances that pass amidst the Holmes brothers have him shrugging as he offers the tea. John takes the tray as Greg ties neat little bows on each of the concotions. 

"Alright. This is for your leg and arm, John." he hands the ex-soldier a golden liquid. "Drink it with your tea." Fishing out the slightly glowing blue liquids for the brothers Holmes, he hands them their separate doses. "This is for emergencies only. When your thoughts become tangled or overwhelming, take that. You can't switch and it tastes the same." Silence reigns as the trio look at him with confusion. "What? They're to help; there's no poison or hallucinogen, I swear." 

"This is what you fed us last week?" Sherlock questions as he tucks his bottle away. Greg knows that if he wasn't aware of the Holmesinian way of judging something, those prepared tinctures would be doing a lot more than just curing mental acuity. 

"No. What I let you have was a general soother. That is specifically designed for you and you alone." he clarifies, leaning back to pet his Familiar and drink his tea. 

"What are you?" John asks after he drinks the relaxant/pain reliever with Greg having showed him the label that the brothers will ignore until the enchanted bottle insists on being read properly. 

"I have no idea what you're talking about. What makes you say that?" Greg hums as he flicks on the telly for a crap show. 

"I feel better already." John's skin has taken on a healthier glow and Greg feels proud of his accomplishment with the ex-soldier if nothing else. 

"It's nothing special, just a family recipe." he demures, hoping to throw them off the scent of magic. "Herbal remedies." Thankfully they let it lie and abuse the contestant on TV instead. 

Greg snorts at some of their more creative insults and he exchanges glances with John which makes both of them fall into stupid fits of giggling. Both Holmes brothers stop as they hear Greg's laugh, two intense sets of eyes lingering on him with a thoughtful expression. He can be excused for blushing because those men are bloody gorgeous in their own rights. Greg knows he's plain and the only reason he isn't labeled as 'boring' as the rest of the world is because he bites back when the brothers press. John's understanding smile makes him point out the obnoxiously loud singer to get the attention off of himself. 

Slipping into the kitchen to make dinner is easy, especially as Sherlock and Mycroft had dropped off in front of the telly while John was in a slight doze. Greg turns on his quiet music and hums along with, pleased as his plants sway as they do when he's alone. 

He's missed his more vigorous plants curling vines around his fingers or arms, sometimes weaving a flower crown that he proudly wears at home. The current favorite is morning glory and it deposits a woven wreath on his head with a satisfied flick of its leaves. Greg used to freely display his magic but his Covenmates became uncomfortable after they realized he was influencing the growth of the severely malnourished garden they'd planted. 

"Thank you. Be _careful_ , alright?" he whispers as he caresses it with a delicate touch. It wriggles in understanding and falls unresponsive as Sherlock blinks open his sleep-gummed eyes. Greg gives the genius a small smile and gets a bleary look in return. 

He sets the table with John's help and prompts the doctor to start with his day. "There was a rash of colds and flus since it is the season. Sarah had to leave her desk quite a bit. Paperwork does pile up in the sickness wave. Then Sherlock shoves those groceries in my arms as quick as you please and tells me to meet him at this address. I had no idea your place would be so full of plants." The intrigued tone makes Greg subtly point out the bags of fertilizer in the back room that never gets guests. 

"Pardon my interruption John, but are you wearing a flower crown Gregory?" Mycroft asked with a raised eyebrow. 

Greg reaches up and touches the expertly woven gift. "I weave them occasionally. Do you like it?" 

"Indeed. Perhaps I mis-judged your initial impression." Azure eyes trace over his lovely gift with a strange emotion in the elder male's eyes. 

"That I'm a little more womanly than you expected or that I can do things other than basic police work?" he teases, leaving it on with a sense of pride flashing through his magic.

"Neither. The fact that you are comfortable in admitting to doing anything of the nature." 

"Huh. Well, baskets, crowns like this one and tinctures like what I gave you. Simple things." he says as he brushes his magic over the more unruly plants to keep them still in the Mundanes' presence. "I take no one else you know does that?" 

"Anthea, perhaps, but only when she is ordered to do so." The tone means that Mycroft rarely asks this of this woman. 

"Your... assistant?" Greg guesses with a tilt of his head to the left. 

"She's gorgeous and wouldn't give me the time of day. I'm surprised she even made one." John says with a shake of his head. Sherlock watches their banter and Greg taps him gently on the leg with his foot, mouthing, 'Join in.' 

"Mycroft tends to want to forget the several crafting lessons he forced me to attend." comes the dry comment. 

"Ah." the grimace from Mycroft is more than enough; Greg now wants to hear the rest of _that_ story.

"I did not like the instructor. She was very insistent on seducing Mycroft so I tripped her repeatedly. The only thing I learned was origami." Sherlock demonstrates by taking one of Greg's old paper pay-cheques and folds it into increasingly complicated shapes. By the time he finishes, it's a dragon. "It is quite useful when no one else understands the message in the folds." 

"We have used it on more than one occasion. It also vaguely impressed the diplomats that such a child could fold something so complicated." Mycroft murmurs, a bit of pride lingering in his tone. 

"I believe it was the Saudi-Arabian who asked if I was eligible to marry?" Sherlock hums with a smarmy grin. 

Greg swallowed his tea roughly before rasping out, "They did what?" 

"Sherlock was quite fond of feminine guises during such dinners." Greg gets the feeling that Sherlock is no longer invited to those dinners unless he's absolutely necessary. 

"So... Crossdressing? I did say you _**could**_ look good in everything..." John laughed as he finished his curry. Greg quietly patted himself on the back for a job well-done. 

"Red taffeta dress, summer of 98, I believe. He created a realistic bust and spoke in soft, sweet tones for most of the night. I have... evidence." Mycroft's grin would be terrifying if it weren't for Sherlock's snort. 

"Winter of 94. Frosted blue silk in mandarin style, backless, complete with strappy heels." The comeback is smug as Sherlock waves his wallet. "The wig was merely extensions. I doubt he could pull it off again." 

"I'll be the judge of that." Greg takes the photo (Mycroft does look amazing) and gestures that Mycroft hand over Sherlock's dress picture as well. Both of them look stunning as women and Greg is not ashamed to say so. "Are you sure that these beautiful birds are you two?" In record time, twin blushes light up the Holmes brother's cheeks as they look anywhere but at each other. "Oh, so they _are_ you. Well, you two happen to be close to the same age in these pictures. Alright, on my day off, come here with matches to those dresses and I'll see which one of you is the prettiest princess. By the way, no ruining anything, no manipulating the other to be late and definitely do not try to fool me or John into folding this contest." 

"You ruin the fun." Sherlock grumbles but shakes on it. Mycroft does the same and both of them are obviously taking mental measurements of themselves twenty years ago and applying that to today's measurements. 

"Wouldn't be fair otherwise." he quips back with a grin that's not quite friendly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comment, complain, ect.


	3. Contest Results: Tie

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cross-dressing Holmes brothers and a flustered Greg~ 
> 
> Enjoy!

* * *

Greg doesn't get a day off for nearly a month after that proposal but somehow Mycroft manipulates his schedule to include a weekend off. 

"Someone up higher must like you Lestrade." his supervisor chuckles as she hands him the confirmed weekends off for the next month and a half. 

"I know just who I'm going to talk with..." he growls as he barely pulls in his magic. Mycroft Holmes was far too sneaky for his own good. 

He spends the first day tidying his flat and tending to his plants, completely calm and relaxed as he prepares for what's coming. Greg sings with his voice laced with magic that blooms into beautiful apparitions that dance amongst his plants and hand-carved furniture. He ignores the feeling of being watched as he soothes his restless children (for truly that's what his plants seem to be) as he sings a lullaby.

_Loo-li, loo-li, lai-lay  
Loo-li, loo-li, lai-lay_

_Lay down your head and I'll sing you a lullaby  
Back to the years of loo-li-lai-lay  
And I'll sing you to sleep and I'll sing you tomorrow  
Bless you with love for the road that you go_

_May you sail far to the far fields of fortune  
With diamonds and pearls at your head and your feet  
And may you need never to banish misfortune  
May you find kindness in all that you meet_

_May there always be angels to watch over you  
To guide you each step of the way  
To guard you and keep you safe from all harm  
Loo-li, loo-li, lai-lay_

_May you bring love and may you bring happiness  
Be loved in return to the end of your days  
Now fall off to sleep, I'm not meaning to keep you  
I'll just sit for a while and sing loo-li, lai-lay_

_Loo-li, loo-li, lai-lay  
Loo-li, loo-li, lai-lay  
Loo-li, loo-li, lai-lay  
Loo-li, loo-li, lai-lay  
loo-li, lai-lay_

After the sweet song, the plants quiet down as he spends time getting to know each of them all over again, checking for pests under leaves and the like. He caresses them with an obvious love. The birds who rent the flats above and below him respectively appreciate his soft taste in music as well as the plant wreathes he leaves for them quite often. They come in every great once in a while to relax and get some more of his soothing lotion for their aching joints (Mrs. Hudson is also a frequent and paying customer that he adores). 

While he doesn't get many customers Greg knows each and every one of their quirks as well as he knows his plants. As a matter of fact, his mailman is quite enamored with his ability to cure plants. Right on cue, the man knocks on his door with his mail and a batch of paperwhites this time around. 

"Rudolphus. Why don't you give up?" he sighs as he takes his bills and pay-cheque, tucking them under his arm, shaking his head at the potted plant plus bulbs.

"It's because you're handsome." The cheeky response has Greg flashing a blinding smile. 

Greg rolls his eyes at the man and takes the plant, knowing that no else will have the time for it. "Anything you or the Missus need?" 

"Not that I can think of at the moment." The older man smiles, tips his hat at Greg, delivering the rest of the mail in the same friendly manner he has with everyone. Greg shakes his head and closes the door, cooing at his brand-new plant baby. 

The second day is a flurry of deliveries to his flat via a very flustered dressmaker and finally the two idiots arrive with a grinning John. 

"A full fashion show? Very well." he fixes tea and waits for the Holmes' to emerge from their separate rooms. John shares a look with him before they hear the rustle of dresses. 

Looking up is like looking at the pictures aged a few years. Sherlock had taken extensions to his hair and now looked like some ex-supermodel. Mycroft was a vision in subdued blue and Greg didn't even care if it made his magic buzz excitedly. 

Of course, then again, Greg was beginning to question his sexuality when it came to the brothers. He looked at John and John shrugged as the Holmes' flounced back into their separate rooms to get on the other monstrosities that Greg'd had to carry there. Sure enough Mycroft was the first out in a deep green silken dress reminiscent of the 1920s. The curls were era-appropriate even as Sherlock sashayed into the room with an exaggerated step, regal in his plum knee-length gown. 

"How many more dresses do you two have? Poor Greg looks like he's about to faint!" John scolds. Greg can't help loving everything about the 1920s, especially the fashion and slang of the day. 

"I would call it a draw." Sherlock's voice had gone from rough and male to smooth with a very feminine purr. 

"Agreed." he gasped out before he fled to his bedroom (not repurposed for anything because he'd locked it with magic). He sat on the bed for a full half-hour, by which time he was being pleaded with by John on the other side to at least join them for tea. "Are they still wearing those damned dresses?" 

"No. I made them put on their regular clothes." 

"Thank Circe." he mutters under his breath as he soothes his more personal plants; a small lilac bush, an orchid given to him by his ex-wife in a burst of stupidity and last but not least, a very affectionate ivy vine that he'd nicknamed Clingy Sally. The last was definitely a dig at his Sgt. when she was being particularly obtuse. 

Wandering out into his living room in his soft cotton dressing gown Greg nearly burst out laughing as the brothers sulked by staring in the opposite direction of one another. Shaking his head at their stubbornness, he watered his plants while humming soft lullabies. The plants expressed an interest in curling around his fingers or into his hair but he silently soothes them by saying that they could entangle themselves around him when the brothers got tired of being in each other's presence. 

Sweet lilting laughter echoed in his mind as the plants were amused by the stupid argument. He smiled as he worked, ignoring his houseguests entirely by focusing on his new plant, smoothing its tiny leaves gently and weaving absent protection spells around it for good measure. A throat being cleared startled his from his revere. 

"Since our contest was a draw, perhaps a different contest is in order?" Sherlock questions as Greg puts away his watering can and plants his hands firmly on his hips like his Mum had done so long ago. 

"No. I'm done with your mind-games. Either you sit and relax in my flat or you can get a boot up your bum for bothering my peace and quiet." Greg turns on his heel, having made his point, and continues to take care of his plants. 

"My apologies, Gregory. We did not mean to disturb you so." Mycroft's voice holds just the right amount of sincerity. 

"Hmph." he snorts but nods at the attempt to make things right. Without having to turn around, he feels Sherlock squirming in his chair while thinking about what to say that beats Mycroft's gentleman apology. "Sherlock, don't over-think it. Besides, it's not like I'll share my recently shipped in biscuits with you anyway." 

The Holmes brothers may think that they are above manipulation but Greg's had to deal with arseholes daily in the interrogation room; he knows food is a great tactic to leverage against the sweets-inclined geniuses. John knows this too as Greg sees from the indecisive facial expression of the genius and the ex-soldier's grin. 

"I'm sorry for making you uncomfortable." the words are quick, even for Sherlock, and Greg knows that's about the only apology he'll get. 

"Acceptable. Now get out of my flat, if you would please?" he sighs, just about done with those two and John's smirking tag-along. Surprisingly there is no protest even as the brothers gather their dresses and leave, John waving as he closes the door. Greg slumps into his seat and Refr jumps up into his lap. Absently petting his Familiar, the plants wind around his limbs and massage all the tension out of his frame as they do after a hard day's worth of work. 

"Bloody arrogant toe-rags..." he grumbles even as the blinds have been closed off from the view of CCTV cameras. 

Greg sometimes wonders what his life would be like if he'd not met Sherlock on that miserably drenching Thursday, muttering to himself about his most baffling case in five years.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comment, complain, ect.


End file.
